In the Shadow of Your Wings
by Aini NuFire
Summary: Castiel got his grace back, and with it his wings. But they weren't in pristine condition. Tag to 10x18 "Book of the Damned" One-shot.


**A/N: This one-shot was inspired by the scene showing Cas's wings after he got his grace back from Metatron. After that comment he'd made about missing his wings, and then seeing them all beaten and broken was so sad, and of course the show never explored the implications, so I did. Takes place at the end of "The Book of the Damned" when Cas and Charlie finally meet. I wish they'd gotten more time together.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own _Supernatural_.**

* * *

 **"In the Shadow of Your Wings"**

Castiel had missed his wings after the Fall, after Metatron had taken his grace and left him human. Then when he'd stolen Theo's grace to regain his angelic powers, he'd still missed his wings, achingly absent as the celestial energy he'd absorbed had restored his nature to a degree, but it wasn't _his_. The foreign grace churned within him, an uncomfortable writhing Castiel ignored in order to focus on defeating Metatron. He'd been prepared for it to burn him out.

But then he'd gotten his grace back—what was left of it. And the wings he'd sorely missed were suddenly returned, but not restored. His grace had been ripped from him, and then spliced apart in Metatron's spell, leaving the small remnant a shredded shadow of a seraph's former glory. With tattered flesh and exposed bone, feathers contorted or missing altogether, Castiel still missed his wings and what they used to be.

Caring for them was also difficult by oneself. Normally angels needed assistance in the case of wing injury, but Castiel couldn't very well return to Heaven since he'd just broken Metatron out—and then let the most hated ex-angel escape. Sam had tried to assure Castiel that he'd done the right thing, since it'd gotten his grace back, and with the problem of the Mark still looming over them, Castiel had to agree. But it was still hard.

He'd held himself with his usual rigid stiffness during dinner while Sam, Dean, and Charlie talked, laughed, and caught up. Charlie was a fascinating human being, bubbly and expressive in a way that contrasted starkly with the Winchesters, and yet the three fit together seamlessly. Castiel almost felt a twinge of jealousy at their unit, but Charlie's smiles and glances his way effortlessly banished that feeling of exclusion. And this time Castiel took comfort in the fact that Dean was also confused by some of the woman's pop culture references.

Despite the camaraderie Castiel had sorely missed lately, he was glad when the three of them retired to bed and he could finally sag forward in his chair, leaning his arms on the table and breathing through a spasm as he tentatively flexed his battered wings. This was going to be unpleasant.

Stretching one wing out and around his shoulder, Castiel reached back to grasp the tip. His wing buzzed at the contact between the physical and incorporeal. In his true form, his wings were bands of celestial energy, more sharp, angular spears of light than the down and quills that manifested on the earthly plane. But feathers were feathers. Breathing through his nose, Castiel gripped the first primary bent at an unnatural angle, and wrenched it straight.

A choked grunt strangled in his throat as he bit back an audible cry. He dropped his forehead onto his arm, breaths now coming raggedly as pain coursed down the wing and through his already sensitive grace. By the time the wave passed, Castiel was dreading attempting the next, especially since a couple feathers were irreparably mangled and would have to be pulled. There was little he could do to actually _mend_ his wings, but this way the exposed damage shouldn't be aggravated by his movements, or hinder him in future battles.

Taking another deep breath, Castiel steeled himself as he reached back and felt along the wing again. His fingers brushed across a gouge, and even though the wound wasn't bleeding, the surface was raw and inflamed. Castiel's muscles seized under the onslaught of white-hot agony, even as he tried to push his grace into the spot and at least soothe the torn edges. There was little else to be done.

"Oh my god."

Castiel jerked his head up at the voice, and found Charlie standing in the archway. She was dressed in flannel pajamas, yet didn't look as though she'd been rudely woken from sleep.

"I mean, not God, uh," she stammered, then flushed. "Sorry."

Castiel forced himself upright, pressing his palms flat to the table in an effort to look unfazed. "Is something wrong?"

Her brows shot up dubiously. "I was chatting with my Moondoor peeps when the laptop started going screwy. At first I thought maybe there was a ghost, but the bunker's warded, and then I remembered how you exploded all those lightbulbs in your first meeting with Dean…" Her rambling trailed off after Castiel had closed his eyes. He'd been trying so hard to be quiet, but he forgot how his essence could interact with electromagnetic fields. He'd also thought everyone would be asleep.

"Um…" Charlie scuffed her slipper on the floor. "Those were wings I saw, right? I mean, the books described them as shadows, and those looked like shadows, though not exactly, uh, what I'd been imagining."

Castiel ducked his head in shame. "My wings are somewhat…damaged."

Charlie made a choking noise that had Castiel whipping his head up again in concern, but she was staring in disbelief again. "You really are a master of understatement." She hesitated, and glanced over her shoulder toward the bedrooms.

"I'm sorry I disturbed you," he said. "It won't happen again." When Charlie didn't move, he rose stiffly to his feet. "You can go back to your…Moondoor. I'll…go for a walk outside." He didn't exactly want to try tending his wings out where he'd be vulnerable, but he didn't want to disturb anyone else.

That seemed to shake Charlie out of her stupor, but rather than going back to bed, she strode down the steps toward him. "Your mojo can't heal yourself like you did me?"

"No…grace can heal others, but when the grace itself is damaged…"

Her eyes widened. "You didn't make yourself worse by healing me, did you? Because while I totally appreciate not having a hole in my stomach anymore, I don't want to be responsible for clipping an angel's wings."

Castiel cocked his head, trying to keep up with Charlie's more rapid way of speech. "That's not how it works."

Charlie glanced back toward the dormitory again before lowering her voice. "Do Sam and Dean know?"

"It's not of import," he said quickly. "Really, Charlie, it's fine. You can go back to bed."

To his surprise and consternation, she merely drew her shoulders back and lifted her chin. "Okay, what do I have to do?"

Castiel blinked. "I don't…"

"You need help, right?" she interrupted. "I mean, it looks like you can't reach everything. So what can I do?"

Castiel gave her a soft smile. "I appreciate the thought, but you don't have to—"

"You healed me just a few hours ago."

"I was happy to do that."

"And I'm happy to do this for you. We're besties now, remember?"

Castiel squinted, trying to parse out not only her meaning, but also how to dissuade her. The stubborn set of her expression, however, suggested she would not budge that easily. Castiel rolled his shoulder in discomfort. "I would have to fully manifest them for you to be able to touch them, and they're…" His brows knitted together at the wash of shame he suddenly felt at the thought of letting her see the complete state of his wings. He could only imagine what those shadows had hinted at when she'd walked in.

"Is it taboo to touch an angel's wings?" she asked. "Like taking the Lord's name in vain, which I apologize for again."

His lips twitched at the sincere earnestness in her voice, so unlike Dean, whose apologies always seemed to come with a disclaimer. 'Sorry, but not really.'

"I'll be careful, I promise."

Castiel swallowed hard, and managed to slowly nod. "Alright. There are feathers that need to be straightened…or removed if they are too damaged."

Charlie's eyes rounded in trepidation, but she staunchly set aside her reservations with a nod of her own. Castiel began to shrug out of his trench coat and suit jacket. Bringing his wings onto the physical plane wasn't something he had ever done before, and he found himself feeling even more self-conscious. As he unbuttoned his shirt, Charlie dragged the chair around, and then gently pushed him down to straddle it. He let the shirt fall from his shoulders, leaving his back exposed. Castiel took a deep breath, and before he could lose his nerve, concentrated on bringing his wings into the visible plane.

It hurt, but only in the way that shifting bones and grating joints did. Once the wings were physical manifestations, it was no more painful than when they'd been in their wavelength state. He heard Charlie let out a soft squeak.

"Wow. Wings."

"Yes," Castiel said with a trace of confusion. That's what he'd told her…

"Okay," she proceeded, and he felt her step closer. Castiel had to resist the urge to flinch away, but even so, his wing twitched. "Okay," Charlie said again. "I see a feather that's, um, bent. So I just…straighten it?"

Castiel focused on his breathing. "Yes." He shuddered when her fingers brushed across the plume, but her touch was gentle. He squeezed his eyes shut as Charlie worked at the feather, trying to undo the kink. It took several minutes, but eventually his grace flowed unobstructed through the shaft and over the smoothed vane. There were gaps between barbs, but that could not be helped.

"Okay, that wasn't so bad," Charlie said cheerfully. Castiel found himself relaxing in the aura of her optimism. Unfortunately, the next feather was twisted to the point that even after several attempts, Charlie couldn't smooth it out.

"You'll have to pull it," Castiel said, voice rougher than before as he braced himself for the pain.

Charlie leaned over to catch his eye. "I won't go to Hell for plucking an angel, will I?"

"No."

"Just checking. Okay then." She took a deep breath, which Castiel distantly found amusing, as this was going to physically hurt him more than it would her. Charlie grasped the base of the quill in her hand and yanked.

Castiel bit down on his lip so hard the taste of copper splashed in his mouth, and a dreadful keening sound rumbled in the back of his throat.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" Charlie gushed.

He pried his eyelids open to see her kneeling at his side, eyes wide and worried. "I'm fine," he managed to ground out, though he had to admit his voice did not sound very convincing. He swallowed and lifted his head a fraction. "Please continue."

Charlie gave him a dubious look. "Okay, well, let's try not to pull any more feathers."

"Some can't be helped," he mumbled, dropping his head back down to rest on his forearm.

Charlie stood and resumed her position behind him. One by one, she worked her way down a full wingspan, straightening what she could and pulling out those feathers that were beyond mending. She rattled on about Moondoor and something called LARPing, interspersed with profuse apologies whenever Castiel was unable to conceal the pain. It was soothing at first, but then it all began to blur into an indecipherable drone. Castiel's awareness narrowed down to two things: pain and breathing through it. And the fleeting thought that perhaps it wasn't worth it to have his wings back.

* * *

After Oz and the whole Good-Me, Bad-Me, and stealing the Book of the Dammed from the Stynes and getting shot, Charlie didn't think there was anything else that could take her breath away. She was wrong once again. Meeting Castiel, _the_ Castiel, whom the books had not done justice, had definitely been the highlight of a very bad streak lately. Not to mention getting that carpal tunnel thing cleared up.

But now she was performing first aid on actual wings, which were mind-blowing in themselves, but truth be told, Cas's wings were also in wretched shape. It'd taken all of Charlie's LARPing skills to swallow a surge of bile and not visibly cringe upon seeing them fully. There was more skin and bone than feathers, and most of _those_ were ratty and torn. The angel had to be in a ton of pain, though he stoically denied it. (Of course he did, the self-sacrificing martyr.)

Charlie really thought Sam and Dean should know about this, but another part of her was proud and honored to be able to help an angel of the Lord. The task had that noble element that Charlie was always searching for, which her stint in Oz hadn't fully quenched.

But it was exhausting and harrowing work. A few lightbulbs in the war room had already exploded, and Charlie sent up a brief prayer that her laptop all the way in the dorm room would be safe. She then felt guilty for the thought, considering the reason for the haywire systems was currently trembling beneath her hands in immense pain while _she_ yanked out feathers. Her stomach did another flip-flop.

She didn't want to bring it up yet, but some parts of the wing looked like they needed stitches, and while Charlie had field dressed her own bullet wound recently, she did _not_ want to suture angel wings. Sam and Dean were much more experienced and therefore probably wouldn't screw it up. But she'd wait until she'd done all she could before mentioning it to Cas.

She had just started telling the angel about one of her Moondoor kingdom's most successful campaigns against a rival kingdom, when the wing she was holding suddenly dropped, and Castiel's body went slack.

"Oh no." She ducked under the mangled wing as he started sliding sideways off the chair, and managed to catch him. His eyes were closed and he was completely unresponsive.

"Oh crap." With her arms full of dead weight, Charlie darted her gaze around, wondering what the heck she was supposed to do. Her heart was pounding, and she had to force herself to remember that dead angels left charred wing prints behind. Though…that was when said wings were invisible. What if the rules were different for physical ones? She adjusted her grip to pat his cheek, but Cas didn't flinch or stir. Her hand hovered near his mouth, yet she couldn't tell if he was breathing, or even if he needed to breathe.

"Please don't be dead, please don't be dead," she chanted under her breath as she pushed him up to slump against the chair. She was probably going to Hell for this after all.

Charlie took a step back, grimacing helplessly at the frayed wings sprawling down behind the angel. Okay, time to call for backup. Pivoting on her heel, Charlie bolted for the corridor leading to the bedrooms. She almost went straight to Dean, but stopped at the last second. She'd forgiven him for beating up Bad-Charlie, but he still had the Mark, so maybe bursting into his bedroom screaming wasn't the _wisest_ idea. She veered toward Sam's room instead and started pounding on the door.

It swung open almost an instant later, revealing a Sam with tousled hair and a gun angled at the floor. "Charlie? What's wrong?"

Oh, how was she going to explain this…? "It's Castiel. He's hurt. I tried to help, but I may have made it worse." She winced guiltily.

"What do you mean hurt?" Sam raised the gun a fraction and leaned out into the hall, as though anticipating they were under attack.

"No, um, I think it's an older injury. He was trying to hide it when I walked in on him."

Sam's expression morphed into disbelief and then a scowl. "Of course he was." He finally set the gun down inside his room and stepped out, ready to follow Charlie back upstairs. "How bad is it?"

"He passed out." She paused, and her voice rose an octave. "I think he passed out." She grimaced again as her inflection brought a new wave of panic to Sam's face, and they both quickened their strides.

They rounded the next corner, and Charlie walked right smack into Dean. His sharp reflexes grabbed her arms before she could bounce off him and lose her balance.

"Where's the fire?" Dean looked more closely at Charlie and his eyes softened. "You okay, kid?"

"Me? Fine. But Castiel needs help. And a suture kit."

Dean shot Sam a bewildered look, as though asking whether Charlie was in her right mind or not. She rolled her eyes.

"I can't believe you two slept through the exploding lightbulbs. I hope my hard drive isn't fried, though that really isn't important at the moment." She pushed past Dean and continued toward the steps, only to whirl back around at the bottom of them. "Uh, you two haven't seen Castiel's wings before, have you?" At least not that the books mentioned.

Sam and Dean exchanged another look, and Dean cleared his throat. "Wings?"

 _Oh boy_. "Yeah, like, real wings."

Now the brothers were pushing past her and storming into the war room. Charlie hurried after them, and nearly ran into their backs when they stopped abruptly. To Charlie's disappointment, Castiel was right where she'd left him, and hadn't regained consciousness. His wings stood out at awkward angles down his back, and the floor was littered with black feathers.

It took a long moment before Sam finally spoke. "Charlie, what the hell…?"

"When I came in here earlier, I saw the shadows," she rushed to explain. "I think he was trying to fix them on his own, but I convinced him to let me help, which meant he had to make them physical. I straightened the feathers, but I had to pull some, and I know it hurt…please tell me I didn't kill him."

Sam and Dean finally snapped out of their stupor and moved forward, stepping carefully around the wings to crouch down on either side of Castiel.

"Cas?" Dean called.

Sam reached out to feel for a pulse. "I think he's alive." His gaze shifted to take in the wingspan to his right. "Oh man…"

Dean stood up and walked around to get a full view. "Son-of-a-bitch. Why the hell didn't he say anything about this? He's always pulling this crap, keeping secrets."

At the seething fury in Dean's tone, Charlie stepped forward and put her hands on her hips. "You will not be angry at him over this," she reprimanded. "I'm sure he felt you had enough to deal with, but more than that…" Charlie pursed her lips. "I think he's ashamed. And before you get all pissy, can you try for one minute to imagine what it would be like for an _angel_ to look like _that_? It'd be like…" She threw her arms up. "Someone shaving half your head and cutting off your ears!"

Dean had clamped his mouth shut at her outburst, but now blinked at her dubiously.

"Okay, yeah." She waved a hand dismissively. "My point is you wouldn't exactly be running to us for help cleaning that up, would you?"

Dean glanced back at the wings, a muscle in his jaw ticking. "I do not get pissy," he finally grumbled.

Charlie merely arched an eyebrow. "Just, go easy on him, okay?"

It took another moment of Dean staring at the wounded angel before the tension loosed from his shoulders and he ran a weary hand down his face. "Shit."

Sam stood from where he'd been crouched by Castiel's head. "I'll get the med kit. Uh, should we move him to a bed?"

Dean studied the mostly bare wings. "Nothing's broken, right?" He glanced at Charlie for confirmation.

"Pretty sure not." With a pang, she realized that had the wings been full of plumage, they might have had a difficult time maneuvering Castiel through doorways. As it was, that wouldn't be a problem.

"Alright." Dean shifted as though he were trying to figure out the best way to go about it. He grabbed one of Castiel's arms and slung it over his shoulder. Sam did the same with the other, and the two started carrying the angel toward the corridor. Charlie fell in step behind them to keep the raw wing tips from dragging on the floor.

"Why the hell are they in this shape anyway if he just got his grace back?" Dean continued to grouse. "What, Hannah couldn't be bothered to do a little angel first-aid? I should send up a prayer reading her the riot act."

"Don't," Sam spoke up hurriedly as they angled Cas through the door of a spare room. "Look, Cas told me he's taking a bit of a break from Heaven for a while, something Hannah thought he should do."

"Whatever," Dean muttered. He and Sam gently laid Castiel down on his stomach, and Charlie helped spread the wings out so they folded evenly down his back—as evenly as they could in this state. There were still a few feathers that needed to be smoothed out, but most of the remaining injuries were the ones that would require stitches.

Dean sighed. "Alright, let's get this done."

* * *

Dean didn't know whether to be worried or grateful that Cas stayed out for the entirety of the stitching. With Dean and Sam each taking a wing, they'd finished in an hour, plus Charlie had taken care of the last few mangled feathers. It twisted Dean's stomach when she had to pull one out, the tip of the quill glistening with a single drop of blood. He remembered glimpses of giant shadows in a barn so many years ago, of Cas's wistful tone on the other end of a cell phone saying, _"I miss my wings."_ Dean didn't understand how the angel could be reduced to… _this_ , not when he'd finally gotten his own grace back. That was supposed to have fixed everything, dammit!

Charlie disappeared for a few minutes, but then returned with a bowl of water and a hand towel. She pulled a chair up by the head of the bed and began tenderly wiping Cas's brow. Dean still had half a mind to rip Cas a new one, but he wasn't really that angry anymore. Cas had obviously suffered enough.

He cleaned up the medical supplies while Sam dabbed some antibiotic ointment on some of the patches that couldn't be sutured because skin had been completely scraped away. Nausea sloshed in Dean's gut at the sight of the practically skeletal wings, and yeah, he could maybe understand why Cas, who was an angel, wouldn't want others to see. Probably didn't want to look at them himself.

A soft moan drew his attention further up the bed, and the wings twitched. Dean quickly sidestepped to get out of the way if they ended up trying to flap or something. Sam backed up as well.

Charlie leaned down and brushed some of Cas's hair away from his forehead. "Hey Sleeping Beauty."

Dean watched Cas's eyelids flutter and slowly open, and let himself breathe in relief.

Cas's voice was more gravelly than normal when he spoke, "I don't think that's an apt reference."

Dean couldn't help the snort that escaped his throat. "No? What would be then?" He frowned as Cas immediately tensed, eyes shooting wide open and flicking toward him.

"Dean," he grunted, and tried to get his arms up to lift himself.

"Hey, no, don't do that," Charlie exclaimed, pressing a gentle hand against his shoulder to keep him from rising. "You scared me half to death, by the way. I thought I'd killed you or something."

Cas glanced back at her. "I'm sorry," he mumbled. "I was…overwhelmed."

Sam came around to stand in Cas's field of vision. "Hey, Cas. Are you in pain?"

A crease wrinkled his forehead, and he slowly craned his neck to look over his shoulder, at his wings. He squeezed his eyes shut. "I'm sorry, you shouldn't have to see…" His breath hitched, and Charlie carded her other hand through his hair.

"It's okay. I finished straightening the feathers, and Sam and Dean stitched the rest. Does it feel better?"

Cas's frown deepened in concentration, and he slowly nodded. "Yes…thank you." With a shudder, his entire body tensed, and the wings flickered before fading out. Cas sagged against the mattress.

"Seriously Cas," Sam pressed. "Is there anything else we can do?"

He shook his head, smushing his unkempt hair into even more disarray. "No. Now that my grace can flow unobstructed through my wings, they will…not be a problem."

Dean noted how he didn't say they would _heal_. "Why the hell didn't you tell us about this, Cas?" Okay, maybe he still had some residual anger.

Charlie shot him a black look, while Cas refused to meet his gaze. Granted, he was still lying on his stomach, and Dean had no idea if rolling over was feasible now that the wings were incorporeal or whatever. And did that mean all their hard work tending the wounds didn't actually mean anything?

"It wasn't life threatening," Cas mumbled morosely. "If I left them, they would have gotten worse. I just didn't anticipate how…difficult…it would be to handle the process."

"But you're okay now?" Sam asked. "I mean, did we actually help anything?" He gestured to where the wings had once been visible, voicing Dean's earlier question.

"You did," Cas assured them, and once again struggled to get up. This time Charlie gripped his shoulders and helped him roll onto his side so he could face them more easily. "I…" He swallowed hard. "I would not have been able to do as thorough a job. Thank you."

Dean crossed his arms and scowled. "Why didn't Hannah patch you up?"

Cas's gaze flicked to Sam, and then the floor, and didn't that just scream that the two were keeping secrets from him. But before Dean could launch into a tirade, Cas looked up again, tired blue eyes meeting his own.

"Hannah wasn't there. I…I lied. I broke Metatron out of Heaven's prison, cut out his grace to make him human, and he led me to where he'd been keeping my grace."

Dean stared at him for a long moment, unsure whether to believe what he was hearing. Not just Metatron's jailbreak, but Cas being upfront and honest with them. Though from that look a second ago, it seemed Sam already knew those details. There were a lot more questions Dean wanted to ask, but Cas's eyelids were drooping and he had slumped against the pillow Charlie had tucked under his head. So Dean decided to set some of his interrogation aside for later.

"I don't get it, though. If you got your grace back, why are your wings in such bad shape?"

Cas looked away again in what Dean was beginning to recognize as shame, and damn if Charlie wasn't right. "Metatron used most of it in the spell to cast out the angels. What was left was damaged—traumatized from being ripped apart. It's still my grace, and it's enough, but…"

"But it's not whole," Sam finished, voice soft with understanding and sympathy.

Cas lifted his head. "I can still help. With the Mark, or whatever you need."

Dean ran a hand over his hair. He hated that desperate note in Cas's tone, as though not being _'useful'_ was automatic grounds for them to kick him to the curb. But, if Dean was honest with himself, he wasn't surprised Cas always reacted that way. They'd both gone through so many screw-ups, on both ends, that Dean didn't know how to fix this endless cycle of hurt and penance between them.

"I know you can. You, Charlie, and Sam, I need you guys." He didn't say he needed them to help find a cure; he'd gotten past that false hope. And part of him didn't want them anywhere near the blast radius when he finally lost it. But right now, when there was still enough human left in him to want, to crave, his family's support…well, he'd hold onto it.

Dean awkwardly stepped forward and eased himself down onto the edge of the bed. "But this family thing, it's a two-way street. So you gotta promise to let us help you too, okay?" And so what if he was a hypocrite.

Cas's mouth pressed into a thin line, but it was more wary than resistant. He glanced briefly at Charlie, who smiled warmly, and then back to Dean. "Alright. I'll…try."

Well, that was better than nothing.

"Okay. You look like you still need some rest. It's late, so we'll talk more in the morning."

Cas let out an exhausted huff, but didn't argue. Dean rose and went to pull a blanket from the closet, which he draped over the angel. Charlie took the edges and tucked him in.

"Sweet dreams," she said.

"The Little Mermaid," Cas replied, eyes already drifting shut.

"Uh, what?"

"That's a more accurate reference," he mumbled.

Dean exchanged a look with Sam and Charlie, wondering if Cas was going loopy from pain.

Charlie pursed her lips. "Mhm, I don't think you're a fish out of water."

"The Little Mermaid gave up the sea, her very being, for a human. She could never go home, and every step on two legs would feel like walking on knives. Yet she chose it."

Okay, Dean really didn't want to think about all the ways that was messed up, especially since Cas seemed to identify with it. And why not? He'd chosen humanity over Heaven, chosen _Dean_ over the angels, more than once. And the pain of those wings…Dean didn't want to ask whether Cas would be stuck feeling that for the rest of his existence.

So instead of dwelling on such uncomfortable notions, he simply shook his head and deflected with a snarky comment. "I don't remember any of that in the Disney version."

Charlie quirked an amused smile at him. "You've seen the Disney version?"

He rolled his eyes. "Shut up."

Charlie just grinned. "Right. Night, bitches!" She left the room with a flourish that could only be Charlie, which made Dean smile.

Sam was still looking at Cas, whose breaths had evened out in apparent sleep. There was a deep furrow in the younger Winchester's brow that suggested he was wrestling with something.

"He'll be fine," Dean said. Because it was what they always said. And Dean needed it to be true.

Sam looked over and smiled faintly. "Yeah."

Dean hesitated. "Do you know how that fairy tale ends?"

Sam frowned, and Dean waited with tenuous patience for his nerd brother to search that memory file of random information he stored in his brain. Slowly, Sam's eyes widened, and he glanced back at Cas.

"She had to kill the prince to save herself, but she couldn't do it," he said softly.

Dean's throat tightened as he remembered Hannah shoving an angel blade into Cas's hand and demanding he punish Dean. Cas had given up his army for Dean then.

"So she died," he ground out. Sounded like a shitty fairy tale worthy of the Winchesters' lives.

Sam remained thoughtful. "Yes…but because she followed her heart, she was granted the wings of an air spirit, and the chance to earn her own soul and enter Heaven."

"Cas lost his wings," Dean said bitterly. "Don't know why he thinks that story fits this situation."

Sam was silent for a moment before he answered quietly, "The story isn't over yet."

They both turned their gazes back to their angel. Cas had done so much for them, sacrificed so much. But maybe there was a chance—though Dean almost didn't dare to hope—that they could help him fly again.


End file.
